


Hush

by almeaculpa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almeaculpa/pseuds/almeaculpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> I inspire myself. Who knew?

Sherlock is sleeping. It has been 4 hours since that big sexy brain surrendered to unconsciousness, Jim has perhaps two hours, only needs 20 minutes.

Johnny is sleeping. It has been six hours since that ordinary mind slipped back into repose, Jim has perhaps two hours, only needs 20 minutes.

Jim is housebreaking. Jim loves to creepycrawl, loves to breath in ordinary air exhaled from ordinary mouths, hovering above the beds of ordinary people who will never know he turned their clothes around on hangers while they slept, moved keys, licked the rims of juice cartons. Jim breathes in their sleepy air and imagines he can taste the moments in their dreams when they are not ordinary, when they grasp and reach for illumination.

This is not why Jim has come to 221B though. Oh, no no no no. Jim does not want to taste Johnny's air, Johnny offends him. Jim knows better than to try to drink Sherlock's air, Jim knows Sherlock's air would be too rarified, that it would incense the madness he fights so hard to wind tight.

Jim is here for a bit of mischief, a single piece of correspondence misplaced from the mantle, an empty beaker left just-so on a table edge and waiting to be broken, one of the ears in the icebox gone missing, the toaster just ever-so-slightly overwatted (burnt toast!). Jim is sowing doubt, sowing discord! Jim is _so much in control_.

He is so much in control that he has swelled, filled his Dormeuil trousers. He begins to touch more delicately, no more need inside him, only _need_. He touches the tea tray, runs a soft fingertip a rounds its edge. He touches a specimen case, lifts the dust to his lips and touches it to his tongue, knows he is tasting something of Sherlock. He drags the pad of a thumb silently over a violin string and quivers himself, taut. 

His eyes fall, in the moonlight, on the coatrack. He had, perhaps, been considering the door - weighing his exit against the weight of his cock in his stupidly posh trousers, when he sees it. Hanging innocent and coquettish next to that rag of Johnny's, a debutante and a whore.

Jim crosses the sitting room, slips his hands beneath the arms, runs his palms down the nap to slip into the pockets. Jim finds Sherlock's gloves, pulls them from the pockets with a whisper, a whisper of kid on a silk blend lining. He does not put them on, too intimate too soon, too invasive - and Sherlock's hands are so much _larger_ than Jim's...

He slips the empty index finger of the right hand into his mouth, suckles gently. Drops the left hand glove, forgotten to the sitting room floor and slides his hands back into those pockets, pushes the skirt of the coat against himself, feels it brush him through his trousers, his pants. The pockets are otherwise empty but Jim finds he minds not at all, withdraws from them even as he worries the soft leather of the glove between his sharp teeth - careful careful, must be gentle, no biting...

Jim withdraws again from the Belstaff, lifts it from the hook and feels the weight of it, presses the collar beneath his nose and draws deep, impossibly inflamed. Insinuates a slender finger into the red buttonhole, pulls it out, inserts it again. Repeats the gesture, improbably harder now. Lays the coat gently down on the sofa, lining up. 

Jim strips. He slides out of £85,000 of bespoke woolen like a snake out of a skin, silk socks left in his cap-toes, shirt laid carefully over all. He keeps his pants on, thinking ahead, lips pursing and flexing around that empty leather finger all the while. Then he lies down, gently, oh so slowly, full-length, front down on the Belstaff, set just so his hardness settles along a pleat and butts against the side of a sofa cushion. Wraps his hands around the lapels, shifts his body weight delicately, finds a slide and pull that begins to build in his sac, rolls his slim hips and feels the lining slide all around him. Jim could wrap himself up in the coat if he could bring himself to let go of his clinch on that collar. He cannot. Intention is lost in impulse that is, for the first time in recent memory, not as changeable as Jim would have anyone believe.

He is so close, precome gumming his pants, building a slick he can rut against and surely _seeping through_ and he astonishes himself by shooting in his pants like a building exploding - one concussive shudder and a long long fall of debris and stuttering motion. He is concussed, the glove in his mouth limp with spit, the collar of the coat damp with his breath, hips twitching like bricks rolling down a pile of rubble. He counts four minutes, counts them precisely because he is Jim Moriarty and could count a minute more accurately than an atomic clock with half his brain blown out the back of his fucking head if he wanted to (but has to count because he _does not know_ if he cried out), then stands. Stands and strips off his pants, is naked in Sherlock Holmes' sitting room with spunk drying on his cock. 

He wipes himself with his pants, dresses without their benefit. He hangs the Belstaff gently, caressingly. He slips the spit sopping right glove into the right pocket, collects the forgotten left glove and returns it home. He fluffs the cushions back into their standard formation, erasing the outline of his urgency as if it had never occurred, filling his own negative spaces. 

He slides his pants into Sherlock's inside breast pocket, takes a deep slow breath and grins his mad grin, the grin that makes his men pull triggers when his fingers snap, and steps out of the flat - slamming the door behind him.

He is gone before Sherlock emerges, gone before Johnny hops down the steps to find Sherlock, nostrils flared and eyes wide, standing in the sitting room in his altogether.

"Sherlock, what -"

"Only a book, John, falling. Go back to sleep."

And Johnny flees those acres of alabaster skin, leaves Sherlock to stare at his coat, to read his scene, to deduce.

Leaves Sherlock to cross the room, wrap himself in his coat as nakedly as The Woman, pull his gloves from his pocket and over his slender fingers, first the left, then the right, still wet and warm and _minty_. To run his hand over his lapels, feel the bulge of something left there. Leaves Sherlock to pace back to his room, silent, eyes on fire. Perhaps smiling.


End file.
